White Lies
by foreverwholocked
Summary: A shadowy figure arrives in 221B, starting off a chain of reactions that seem to all revolve around Moriarty. He somehow seems to know where Sherlock and John are where ever they go, but who's telling him?
1. Chapter 1

John's phone buzzed persistently in his pocket. With a sigh, he withdrew it, already expecting it to be his flatmate.

GOING TO BE LATE HOME. MORIARTY IS TRYING TO BE CLEVER. SH.

John rubbed his brow worriedly, and, for all the help it would give, texted back.

BE CAREFUL. JW.

It perplexed John how Sherlock Holmes could be texting as well as fending off his nemesis, but then again; he was Sherlock Holmes. John was surprised when his phone buzzed again, not long after he sent his own.

ALWAYS AM. I'LL BE 15 MINUTES. PUT THE KETTLE ON, WOULD YOU? SH.

He sighed again, slipped the phone back into his pocket and heaved himself from his favourite armchair. Sometimes John swore that the only reason Sherlock ever wanted a flatmate was to be able to have a servant. He walked into the kitchen, and filled the kettle reluctantly. When he turned to place it back on its platform, John noticed a shadow sitting in the arm chair that faced the kitchen. He almost dropped the kettle in shock, but managed to quickly place it on the counter.

At first, John believed it to be Sherlock, even though his fifteen minutes wasn't up yet; he was odd like that. But when John heard the figure speak, he realised with a stab of fear who was sitting in the living room.

"You know, John, I've never really got to know you all that well." Moriarty said. And his Irish accent made it sting all the more. John froze as he examined Moriarty sitting in that armchair like he owns the place, fingers steepled under his chin, which reminded John of Sherlock. John's voice locked in his throat for a moment, before he finally managed to pick a question out of the whirlwind in his head.

"What do you want?"

John was starting to regret putting the kettle down. It would've made a good blunt object. If it came to that. The doctor swallowed hard and watched Moriarty smirk even more. John swore that a smirking picture was just stapled to his actual face 24/7. Moriarty had picked up Sherlock's violin, and was examining it in his hands.

"What? Don't you believe me when I tell you that I came here to get to know you better?" John just looked at him and folded his arms, doing his best to hide the lingering fear in his mind.

"No." John realised then that he was trapped. The living room held the only exit, and in order to get to it, he'd need to pass Moriarty. And he doubted he'd let him do that.

"Hmm, maybe you're not as dumb as I first thought. You're right. I didn't come here to make small talk. You see, I've come to learn how fond Sherlock is of you," at which John had to fight with himself not to smile, "and so it came to my attention how distraught Sherlock would be if he happened to lose you." John's smugness quickly faded, and he felt as if he was choking on the words themselves.

"What?" the doctor inquired, but had a dreadful feeling he knew what he meant already. Moriarty just continued to smile wickedly at him. In his hand, he held a gun, which John didn't remember him taking out from his pocket. Then, John noticed with horror, that it was pointed at him.

_Oh, god._ It wasn't like John hadn't had a gun pointed at him before, but the last time is just as scary as the first. The doctor shakily put up his hands, for all the good it would do, and attempted to casually slide over to the side counter. Moriarty didn't seem to notice.

"John, I hope you know why I'm doing this. I have nothing personal against you; in fact, my hatred is only aimed at Sherlock. But without his little pet," at which point John shot daggers Moriarty's way, "Sherlock would surely grieve that loss for the rest of his life, evident to others or not. Meaning I win, no matter what he tries to do for revenge." John thought about whether his flatmate would miss him or not, and came to the realisation that he might. Then something else hit him.

"This is all just a game to you, then? You don't care who gets hurt in the process, you just want to beat Sherlock. That's… that's crazy!" Moriarty just sneered and cocked the pistol. "I'm the most famous psychopath in England, what do you expect?" He readjusted the firearm in his hands, and the weapon was now pointed at John's head. John swallowed his breath, and told himself to keep calm. He had a plan, but there was only a small percent chance it would work.

John focused on Moriarty's finger wound around the trigger, his heart pounding inside his ribs, and waited for the psychopath's hand to flex, which was a dead giveaway to when someone was about to shoot, and gave a split second gap between the two. As soon as Moriarty's hand did so, John grabbed the teapot from the side and held it in front of his head. Instantly, it smashed in his hands and a sharp piece cut him as it clattered to the floor in hundreds of pieces, along with a bullet. Sherlock wouldn't be too happy about that. John gritted his teeth as the pain flew up his arm, but ignored it. It turned out army training did come in handy.

Moriarty seemed to find this amusing, but John could see the annoyance glint in his eyes. "Very well done, John. I'm impressed. I didn't think you had it in you." John opened his mouth to reply, but he was distracted by the sound of the door flinging open. He saw Moriarty's gaze snap from him to the figure in the doorway. John knew instantly who it was, even though the wall was blocking his view of the man. He was exactly on time.

"Get out." Sherlock's voice sliced through the tension sharply. Moriarty, still holding Sherlock's violin in his other hand, pocketed the gun he was playing with in his hand, and stood up with a thin smile. "Sherlock, how nice to see you again. I was just talking about you with your pet." Silence. John didn't dare to move from the kitchen, but could tell Sherlock was glaring at him.

"He's not my pet. Now, get out." He said calmly, and Moriarty headed for the door obediently. "Stop. Give me my violin." John heard.

"You just asked me to leave-"

"Now."

When John heard the door slam, rather than shut, he finally dared to take a breath, and stepped out of the kitchen. Sherlock was already sitting on the far couch, in his Thinking Position, as John liked to call it. The detective's head was tilted a bit, fingers steepled under his chin, and he was staring straight ahead. Then he spoke again.

"Is my tea ready, John?" John flashbacked to the smashed tea pot that still lay scattered on the kitchen floor. The doctor must have looked guilty, because when Sherlock looked at him, he said;

"Yes, I know the teapot is broken, I heard it smash from outside, but need's must and all. You don't require a teapot to make tea, it's just very handy. Now, off you go." John only had a moment to feel the relief of not being ranted at before he realised he was being bossed around again. He sighed, and went back into the kitchen, carefully avoiding the sharp pieces on the floor.

When John came back with the tea, Sherlock was still thinking, and the sidekick wondered (like always) what was going through his mind. He handed the tea to Sherlock, and at first thought he wasn't going to take it, but he slowly lifted his hand to it and took it from him. It took John sitting down opposite Sherlock and waiting a moment before the detective finally said, "Thanks."

After a while of awkward tea-drinking, Sherlock finished his tea, and got up. "We need to see Mycroft." John almost spit out the tea in his mouth, but he managed to swallow it instead. "What, why?" He hastily put down his own tea, despite not finishing it, and got up too.

"He's been helping Moriarty." And that's all John got before Sherlock ran out of the apartment. The slightly confused doctor was left no choice but to run after him, grabbing his coat on the way out.

"Sherlock, wait!"


	2. Chapter 2

By the time John had put on his coat while racing down the stairs, Sherlock was already getting in a cab. John bolted toward the door and through, pulling it shut after him, and jumped into the cab. As he clicked his seat belt into place, he noted Sherlock smiling at him. "You're fast when you want to be, aren't you?" he asked. "I could say the same for you." John replied.

When the taxi pulled up outside the Houses of Parliament, Sherlock got out straight away and headed toward the building. This left John to pay the cabby. He sighed, and forked out the money and passed it to the driver. John got out the other side, and as soon as he slammed the door shut, the taxi pulled away.

When he tried to find Sherlock, he was already heading inside. _Damn, why can't he just wait?_ he thought and ran through the Londoners after him. When he got to the doors, he was stopped by guards. He stuttered over explanation, and then Sherlock reappeared on the other side of the doors. He opened them, grabbed John's hand, and explained to the guards for him.

"He's with me." And with that he dragged John over the threshold and all the way up to the floor where Mycroft was, muttering things about how there was no time to waste.

Sherlock was still dragging him when he opened the doors to Mycroft's office and ran in. John noted the doors shut behind them, and started to wonder if this was a bad idea. He looked over to Mycroft, who looked up, slightly surprised at first, and then he smiled.

"Ah, Sherlock, you have finally found yourself someone decent. All those girls you liked at school were really quite pathetic, you know." John knew exactly what he meant, and looked down to Sherlock's hand grasped around his. He felt a blush crawl into his cheeks.

"What? Oh." Sherlock said, and gave John his hand back. "I'm not here to reminisce my childhood with you, Mycroft, I'm here to talk about Moriarty. He's back." Mycroft's face switched from an amused smirk to a concerned glare in an instant.

"What?"

"He came to our flat this morning. I believe he threatened to kill John." This surprised the man himself, as he didn't recall telling Sherlock about that. Mycroft looked a little bored. "Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock almost looked stricken.

"Because, dear brother, you're helping him!" The detective's composure cracked, and John saw a glimpse of his anger. He quickly managed to smooth it over. Mycroft seemed to find this amusing. "Whatever gave you that idea?" He clasped his hands together and leant forward.

"You, Mycroft, have been telling him about me. About things that I entrusted you with. Things like-" He paused, and John swore Sherlock looked at him, very briefly. "Private things," he finished. "He now has the advantage, thanks to you."

"Brother, has it ever quite crossed your mind that maybe, once or twice, you might be wrong? You know how fast that brain of yours works; it's easy to miss something." Sherlock looked outright offended, and the bickering went on for longer than John was comfortable with.

Eventually, John decided to move to the back wall, and leant against it, pondering about the previous case Lestrade had given them.

It was only when John heard his name mentioned in the conversation- no, argument, that he listened in. Mycroft was talking. "-and how do you know your little pet didn't leak the information?" That froze Sherlock right on the spot. At first, John thought someone had shot him or something crazy, but then he took in a deep breath.

"Firstly, he's not my pet; he's called John. Secondly, I know he wouldn't," he said, and Mycroft's eyes gleamed as he leant closer, intrigued, "Have you asked him?" Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but John quickly stepped in. This was out of hand.

"No, he hasn't asked me." And they both turned to look at him as if he'd died and been resurrected. Sherlock tried to talk to him. "John, I don't need you to-"

"Go on Sherlock, ask the man." Mycroft said impatiently. Sherlock walked over to John, and eyed him. "No," he said simply, and explained, "because I know my own flat mate…" Sherlock said, and paused before he continued, "and I know what makes him blush." With which Sherlock put his palm above John's head on the wall, and leant into John's personal space, his head only inches away from the doctor's. John's confusion melted into a tremendously hard effort not to show any emotions.

Especially the kind which involved blushing.

He quickly made to shuffle out from the space between the wall and Sherlock, and walked – not too fast – to the other side of the room. He felt Mycroft's eyes on him, probably accompanied with a smug expression, but he was focused on Sherlock, who was looking at him with an expression John found hard to identify. "Knew it," Sherlock announced, and simply turned his attention back to Mycroft, leaving John to wonder what he meant; though he had a gnawing feeling that he knew.

"You're hiding him somewhere. Perhaps here," Sherlock insisted, and stopped to think, which, for him, took a split second. "Yes. He's here, isn't he? You're _helping_ Moriarty. How could you? Of course you never did have an IQ over thirty so I suppose it's not too surprising."

"Dear brother, why would I help the man that has attempted to kill you several times already?" To which Sherlock paused. He opened his mouth to answer, but his string of words probably went something like _I don't know,_ which was impossible for Sherlock to admit.

Suddenly Moriarty was right there, in the centre of the room. John wasn't sure how it had happened, but one moment that space was empty, and in the next moment it was filled by Moriarty's figure. John looked past him through the now-open doors and saw the guards that were standing by the door now splayed across the floor outside.

"Sherlock! What a nice surprise to see you here," said Moriarty, twisting his face into a smile that quite honestly scared John and made him want to run and hide. The army doctor glanced to Sherlock, who was glaring at Mycroft, who was blankly looking back. This left Moriarty to stare at John with those crazy black-hole eyes. John shuffled awkwardly on the spot, feeling as if he was being sucked into them.

"We'll be leaving now, John," said Sherlock suddenly, and strolled straight past Moriarty, sending daggers his way. John took a moment to gawk after Sherlock then hurried after him, not taking his eyes off Moriarty – who was still staring at him – until he was safely through the doors.

By the time John had got outside, Sherlock was already crossing the road at the front of the building, his long black coat billowing behind him. Yet again, he was leaving John to catch up. John ran over to the road, checked for cars, and crossed swiftly. "Sherlock!"

The detective paused and turned at the familiar sound of his name, which left John enough time to catch up with him. When Sherlock saw who it was, John noticed he smiled. "Why aren't we taking a cab back to the flat?" John asked, staring at Sherlock's face blandly.

"No. Too obvious. Moriarty knew we were with Mycroft… We need to be more careful, John, alright?" And just for a moment, John swore he saw a glint of worry in Sherlock's eyes. "Alright," John said, which seemed to put Sherlock's manic mind at rest, just a little.

Then, John noticed a little white speck drift onto Sherlock's black coat, making it stand out. "Sherlock?" John asked, watching the dot. "Yes?" he replied, his eyebrow arched.

"I think it's snowing." With which they both looked up into the grey-coloured sky. Indeed, there were more small white flakes falling from the sky. "So it is, John." Sherlock smiled, his hair beginning to look silver from the dusting of snow. "Come on," Sherlock said as John began to shiver from the cold, and lead him down an alley between two tall buildings, where the snow found it hard to fall.

The detective combed a hand through his hair, which shook the silver colour from it. Shame, John thought; it suited him. John tried his best to stop shivering, but found he was unable to, so he wrapped his arms around himself and pressed his back to the wall. John was watching the stray snowflakes weave into the small crevice in-between the buildings when Sherlock spoke; a warm sound which contrasted against the state of the weather.

"You're cut, John," he said, staring at the doctor's wrist. John had to look down at it to confirm it for him, then realised with a start it was the cut that the smashed teapot had left. And it hurt. John opened his mouth to explain, but Sherlock was already grabbing his wrist to inspect it, holding it up to a slither of light as if it wasn't attached to a body.

John couldn't help but notice how _warm _Sherlock felt, even through the detective's leather gloves, John could feel the heat radiate from Sherlock's skin to his own. While he was inspecting his wrist, John couldn't help imagining snuggling into that warmth and-

_Stop it._

And just to make it worse, Sherlock had to comment, "John, why are you so cold?" without even looking away from his wrist. "Well, it's minus two at least out here, it's snowing and the only warm thing I'm wearing is this damn coat," he replied. Sherlock turned his eyes to him and studied his face for a moment, the let go off his wrist, leaving it to be swarmed by cold air once more. John noted that Sherlock didn't bother stating the fact that he wasn't cold, but instead said, "John, I need you to promise me something."

His stare at John's face had hardened, and John realised he was expecting a reply. "Yeah, of course, what is it?" He answered, and frowned into his stare.

"I need you to promise me that you will never let Moriarty get between us. Because if he does, he can use us against each other, and that may quite possibly be the worst experience I will ever have to go through. Do you understand?" he finished. John could see he was dead serious and nodded convulsively, but couldn't help but add;

"Ah, so the great Sherlock Holmes does have feelings?" Which caught Sherlock quite off guard, but he quickly regained himself. "Please, John, everyone has feelings. I just tend to hide mine more than the average person. Because, well, when was I ever average?" John realised that Sherlock was in fact smirking at the ground, and not directly to him, which made John feel indescribably odd, like he had known all along. Sherlock's gaze then snapped to him again, and the seriousness was back.

"I mean it though, John; whatever he says to you, you have to ignore. He's below us, and always will be. _Do you understand?_" The desperation in Sherlock's voice was almost unrecognisable for someone who always seemed so self-assured, and the more John looked into his eyes, the sadder they seemed. John nodded again.

"I know, Sherlock. I trust you, more than anyone I've ever met," he said reassuringly, but he wasn't sure if he was reassuring himself or his flatmate. The detective seemed surprised at himself, and quickly changed the subject.

"Shall we head back to the flat? It'll be warmer there," he said, and looked to John's still-shivering figure, "or we could stay here, and you could get frost-bite or hypothermia, or simply just be miserable." John swore that just for a moment Sherlock smirked, but something quickly rubbed it from his face. He was probably still thinking about Moriarty, John decided.

"Personally I'd like to head back to the flat," John said. Even if it was on foot, the thought of a warm cup of tea made John want it more desperately. The pair walked out of the alleyway, and as they turned the corner, Sherlock's hand brushed his, and John thought that he was going to hold his hand again. But he didn't. Sherlock didn't seem to acknowledge the fact he'd even touched him.


	3. Chapter 3

When John followed Sherlock into the flat, he instantly slumped into the closest armchair, took in a deep breath and sighed heavily. He watched Sherlock dart around the flat, wondering how the hell he could have that much energy.

It took Sherlock to do several laps of the lounge before John started to realise that the detective was looking for something. "Sherlock?" he asked wearily as Sherlock started flinging books off of the bookshelf. Again. Sherlock made a sound, showing John he'd acknowledged him, so John pressed on, "What are you doing?" with which Sherlock spun around, his coat swirling behind him, and looked at John like he was an idiot, which wasn't really very unusual.

"Moriarty knew where to find us back there; with Mycroft. There may have been some truth in what my brother was saying, but nevertheless I believe he may be spying on us. So I'm looking for any type of recording device," he explained, and went back to throwing books over his shoulder. John managed to catch one before it hit him, and placed it down swiftly.

"But Sherlock, Moriarty's already put a camera in the bookshelf. Surely he wouldn't put a camera in the same place twice?" he queried, and quickly got a reply. "That's what he'd want you to think though, John. We need to search every possibility. Moriarty specialises in mind games… You never know quite what he's up to before it's too late."

John wasn't sure what the last part of Sherlock's words had to do with recording devices, but let it slide anyway. John sighed again – just listening to Sherlock try to explain something seemed to exhaust him – and took a glance around the room.

Where something caught his eye.

"Uh, Sherlock?" John said, not taking his eyes off of it.

"What now, John? I'm busy!" he answered, obviously getting frustrated. John continued.

"I've found something," he said, with which Sherlock turned around immediately. John saw Sherlock follow his finger in his peripheral vision as he pointed to it.

"Oh."

Right in the centre of the left eye of the yellow smiley face Sherlock had sprayed onto the wall ages ago for a case, was a small black, glossy dot.

Sherlock headed over to it and nimbly plucked it from the wall. John made to stand up and look at it over his shoulder, but Sherlock held his hand out at him.

"Stay there, John. You don't know what this is. For all you know it could be a bomb and I just started off the timer." John noted how Sherlock had used 'you' instead of 'we'. After a moment of turning the ten pence coin-sized object in his fingers, he moved over to the dining table, where his microscope stood from yesterday, when Sherlock had been examining his blood results from one of his _experiments._

John followed him over and took the seat next to him as his flatmate sat down. The army doctor watched as Sherlock investigated it under the microscope, and after a moment asked,

"Is it a camera?" Sherlock made a noncommittal noise before asking John to make some tea.

John headed for the kettle- which included passing the smashed teapot that still lay shattered on the floor. He sighed down at the mess as he flicked the kettle on, and slumped into the dining chair again.

Sherlock finally got frustrated with the little black object and simply threw it across the room, becoming yet another thing John would probably have to clean up later. Sherlock strode from the dining table into the living room again, and started pacing.

John watched him for a bit before picking up the newspaper on the table in front of him. He flipped it into a steady position, where it would hold itself up. For the moment, he just wanted to forget about Sherlock, and the stress and chaos that seemed to be attracted to him. Not that John took it against him or anything, he probably couldn't help it.

Probably.

Just as John was reading an interesting article about a bus found mysteriously in the centre of Cross Gardens, Sherlock decided to make conversation, perhaps to take his mind off of the current situation. "John?" he started, and John grunted in reply.

"Who did you go out with last week? On a date, I think you said," he asked, and looked at him, "you never told me."

John looked up at Sherlock, seeing his green-grey eyes stare intently at him, and shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. "No one," the doctor said quickly, and went back to reading his newspaper, trying to avoid looking at Sherlock. John bet the detective was frowning at him as he spoke. "Really? Oh, I see. It didn't work out for you. Good," and John's eyebrows rose.

"_Good_?" he repeated, and risked a glance at Sherlock. He was still staring, but his stare was now accompanied by a smirk.

_Don't get the wrong idea._

"What do you mean; _good_?" he asked. Sherlock moved over to the fireplace and started fiddling with the objects on the mantelpiece before he replied. "I was only saying because honestly you were too good for her."

John paused, and, with a hint of disbelief, asked, "Is that a compliment, Sherlock? Because only last week you were mocking me on how I liked to 'wear entire sheep around my torso'." This seemed to make Sherlock smile as he recalled saying so, but there were more complex thoughts going on behind it.

"Yes, John. I suppose it is a compliment," he said, and paused, "I think the kettle's boiled," which was basically Sherlock's way of telling John to make the tea. John sighed and rose from the table, sidestepping the sharp shards on the floor, and poured out the kettle into two teacups.

"Forget the tea, John," Sherlock said sharply. Confusion crept across John's face. "What? But you just asked me to-"

"No, I didn't," the sociopath said, and began to talk very fast, "well, I did, but I didn't mean it. Actually I did then, but not now. Look, John, don't you see? Of course you don't, you never do," John opened his mouth to argue but Sherlock continued, "How could I have not seen this before?"

John's frown furrowed deeper into his face, and, like many times before, had to ask what the hell his flat mate was on about. "John, Moriarty _let_ us walk out of that building without making a single threat or doing anything dire. We're winning; we're beating him, but he's _letting_ us win. John, dammit! This is all wrong!" John watched Sherlock pace around the room, flailing his hands wildly about his head, and, perplexed, asked once more, "What?" Sherlock turned again to stare at him, and something like frustration burned behind his eyes.

"We're losing, John."

Sherlock slumped into the dining room chair and rubbed his face tiredly. John slipped into the chair next to him and looked at him worriedly. Suddenly the detective swivelled in his chair and sat looking back at him, studying his face with a sense of calm (or something like it).

"John, can I trust you?" he asked, and John could tell he was serious, but he couldn't help but feel like it was a stupid question- but he wouldn't tell Sherlock that. "Of course, Sherlock," and John heard himself truly mean it.

"Good," he said. John sat there, somewhat awkwardly, awaiting more words that Sherlock didn't seem to be saying.

"Do you trust me?" John felt compelled to ask, even though they had been sharing a flat for over a year now. Sherlock looked as if the thought had never occurred to him.

"Hmm," he said, and John could see his eyes flicker over his face as he thought about it, "I suppose I do, yes." John sighed a little breath of relief - he wasn't sure why, the army doctor had been confident of it virtually since they met – but hearing him say it made it more _real_ somehow.

It wasn't until John noticed how close Sherlock's face was from his that John also noticed that Sherlock had lightly placed his hand on John's knee. Then John tried to speak, but his voice didn't seem to come out. After a few attempts, John managed to stutter out some of the first syllable of 'Sherlock', but he was cut off by the detective himself kissing him quickly on the lips.

It was just a quick peck, but there was something hidden behind it. Before John could ask, Sherlock got up and wondered over to where his violin lay perched against the wall. John watched him pick it up and start playing as he kept rewinding that moment in his head. Confusion and curiosity quickly twisted into frustration and anger. John stormed over to his flat mate,

"_Sherlock_," John yelled, "Sherlock, what the hell was that about!" John waited for a response, but Sherlock seemed to be ignoring him. John tensed up as he became more frustrated. "Sherlock Holmes! You don't just _kiss_ someone and then don't explain why! Especially when that person is me!"

This earned a sideways glance from Sherlock, who continued playing the instrument, but spoke over it. "I can't hear you John, you know that, right?" he said calmly, which made John even angrier. The doctor started mumbling choice words under his breath, and stomped off to his bedroom.

He flung himself onto the bed and buried his head in his arms. After a moment of heavy breathing, he turned onto his side to look out the window. _It's raining,_ John thought, and wondered if Sherlock was looking out at the constant downpour too.

After a while of listening to the pitter-patter of the rain on the window and being lulled by Sherlock's sonorous playing, John's eyelids slowly failed him, and he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

John woke up to a loud beep from his phone, and with a tired groan, dug it from his pocket. He looked at its screen and sighed heavily as he read the text.

HAVE I UPSET YOU, OR DID YOU FALL ASLEEP FOR 2 HOURS AND 14 MINUTES? SH.

John found it amusing how much Sherlock liked to keep track of time, and also wondered if Sherlock was actually asking because he cared. He lazily moved his fingers over the keyboard on the touch screen, and sent the message.

BOTH. JW.

He noticed after some yawning and stretching that Sherlock had stopped playing his violin, and it had even stopped raining. John perched himself onto his elbows and looked around his bedroom. His phone buzzed again in his hand.

I'M SORRY. IT WAS AN EXPERIMENT. COULD YOU MAKE A CUP OF TEA? SH.

John couldn't help but frown at the fact that Sherlock was asking him to be his servant when he was clearly sulking off at him. He sighed again and texted back, quicker because of his frustration.

COULD YOU STOP TEXTING AND TALK TO ME? JW.

John half-expected for Sherlock to be a smartarse and text back something like 'no', but as he looked up he saw his wiry, dark figure in the doorway. It was dark in John's room, so it took a moment for his eyes to pick out the detective's face.

When they did, it looked like Sherlock was staring at the floor. As John scanned him some more, he appeared to be holding what looked like a teacup. Sherlock looked up at him and passed it to the doctor. Was this his way of an apology?

Sherlock awkwardly sat and the end of his bed, and looked like he was going to say something. John sipped the tea and waited.

"Do you know if there are any bodies come into the morgue recently?" he asked. Not what John was expecting.

"Uh, I'm not sure," John replied. Sherlock seemed to think about this, then said,

"Let's go find out." And he dashed out of the room.

John hurriedly attempted to improve his rather crumpled look by patting what he could of the creases that had formed in his clothes out, and quickly stuffed his toes into his shoes. As he headed for the door, he heard Sherlock call his name from what sounded like outside.

"Coming!" John yelled, and shrugged on his leather jacket before running down the stairs. John noticed halfway down the stairs that the front door was left wide open, and as he got to the bottom of the stairs, he froze.

Sherlock was standing in the doorway, his back to him, and over the detective's shoulder John could clearly see a face.

Moriarty.

That's why Sherlock called for him. Usually he just sped off leaving John to catch up. Why didn't he think that suspicious? He moved quickly over to where Sherlock stood, and saw his gaze fixed firmly on his arch-enemy.

"Oh, come on out, boys, I won't bite. Well, I might," Moriarty said as a manic grin spread across his face. Sherlock made no move to go anywhere. "I'm waiting," Moriarty mumbled, and finally Sherlock stepped away from the building. "Sherlock!" John whispered at him harshly, wondering what the hell he was doing. Sherlock glanced to him quickly before turning to face Moriarty again.

"It's quite alright, John, I doubt Jim here would be so bold as to make a scene in the middle of a residential area in plain sight," Sherlock explained. John realised he had a point. But if that was true, then what was the psychopath criminal doing here? As if Moriarty heard him, he explained himself,

"Well done, Sherly. If you're wondering, I'm here because I was passing through the area, and all of a sudden, I realised how _bored_ I was," he said, "and I was hoping you could help me with that." His eyes gleamed, despite it being quite cloudy outside. Perhaps it was the reflection of the thin layer of snow on the ground.

"What do you want, Moriarty?" Sherlock spat, and John was glad Sherlock wasn't staring at him, because John could feel the tension of his glare from where he was standing.

"I want to play," he said, and the way he said it made John's breath catch in his throat. John got himself together before reaching behind him and pulling out a gun from under his shirt. Moriarty seemed to dismiss this with one look.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you, Johnny-boy."

_Why doesn't he stop smiling? _John wondered to himself, but bit his lip before aiming the gun with his army hands. He realised with a start that if he could, he would shoot Moriarty dead on the street for so much as threatening Sherlock. But, sadly, he couldn't. He saw in the corner of his eye Sherlock turn towards him. "John-" he started to warn, but before he could finish, Moriarty dived behind him, distracting him from his sentence.

It only took a moment for John to realise what he was doing. Sherlock had already seemed to figure it out and was trying to move out of the way, but Moriarty was too fast.

Moriarty was _hiding_ behind Sherlock; he knew John wouldn't even risk the small chance his steady hands gave him of accidentally shooting Sherlock instead of Moriarty. John gritted his teeth, trying to get a good shot, but it was no use; Sherlock's coat was just too big. He couldn't tell what Moriarty hiding behind him was or what was actually part of Sherlock.

John slowly lowered the gun, glancing at its sleek black design, before looking back up to his best friend and his nemesis. Moriarty was still hiding behind Sherlock, and Sherlock passed a smirk towards John before spinning around and bringing his fist up, right into Moriarty's stomach.

_Ouch._ John thought as he watched Moriarty recoil backward, almost falling into the road.

Almost.

Before anyone could react, he recovered and charged toward Sherlock again, banging his own fist into the side of Sherlock's face. It was Sherlock's turn to recoil, and as John watched he subconsciously brought up the gun again and fired.

Sherlock stared in almost-awe as Moriarty slowly slumped to the floor, his eyes steadily lolling back into his head.

"John! You just _shot _him!" Sherlock exclaimed, and quickly knelt by the body, checking for any serious damage. John smirked; he had only shot Moriarty in the arm, but his aim was perfect. Sherlock slowly rose, twiddling a small red thing in his right hand, as his left was still clamped over where Moriarty had hit him.

"It's a tranquiliser gun, Sherlock," John explained, and Sherlock looked at him before smiling.

"Yes, John, I can see that _now," _he said, examining the red feather tip of the dart, "that's very clever of you."

"Thanks," John replied, and couldn't help but smiling back. He looked at Sherlock's hand which was still covering his injury, and wondered whether it was anything serious. Sherlock must've noticed this, because he quickly stated;

"It's nothing John, I'm fine. I need to go to St. Bart's now."

And before John could say anything to argue, he was running off, attempting to hail cabs as he went. John looked at his retreating figure before realising there was an unconscious man at his feet. He thought about what to do with him for a moment before hastily pulling him into a back alley by some bins, hoping no one will notice until he wakes up.

John had to break into a sweat just to catch up with Sherlock, who was already at the end of their estate road. Luckily for John, Sherlock had stopped by the main road and was still trying to get a taxi.

When John reached Sherlock, he was breathing heavily; half from the sprint over here and half from lugging a man's deadweight down an alley. Sherlock glanced at John before turning his attention back the road.

"Don't do that John, it's only suggestive," Sherlock said monotonously, "and it quite frankly irritates me." _Easy enough for you to say,_ John thought, and stood up straight after catching some of his breath back.

After a few more attempts, Sherlock finally managed to catch a cabby's attention. They climbed in the back seat and the detective called to the cabby where they wanted to go before the car slowly set off.

John still couldn't see the part of Sherlock's face where Moriarty hit, even though he had taken his hand away from it, because John was sitting on the wrong side of him. The army doctor sighed and looked out of his window at the blurred buildings and cars going past.

It crossed John's mind whether Sherlock was now going to Bart's for the same reason as intended earlier. Was he hurt that badly? John mulled this over for a moment, and wondered why Sherlock wouldn't show John if he really was hurt. He was a doctor after all. Would it make Sherlock feel ashamed? He didn't seem to mind when John punched him after he asked him to, but he guessed this was different. The doctor sighed as he decided he'd never be able to tell what the Great Consulting Detective was thinking.

"I hope there are some more bodies in the morgue," a voice said. John looked around, recognising the voice to be Sherlock's, but as he looked at his flatmate he realised he was talking to himself, because he was still staring out the window on his side with a slightly blank look.


	4. Chapter 4

The taxi eventually pulled up by the hospital, and Sherlock simply threw the money asked for at the cabby and swiftly climbed out. John was left to apologise to the startled driver and got out of the car on his side.

"Sherlock! What have I told you about throwing things at people?" John said, and jogged a little to catch up with Sherlock, who was making good pace up to the front doors. John thought he heard Sherlock mumble an apology, and took it as an answer. He sighed and mused over how childish Sherlock could be sometimes.

They went inside and John was instantly hit by the clean, white, sterilised atmosphere of the hospital. As Sherlock headed straight past the reception desk for the stairs to the mortuary, the receptionist passively glanced up at Sherlock before looking back to the files on her desk. The staff here knew who he was, obviously.

Traipsing around the corridors and stairwells of the hospital could be rather confusing at times, but no doubt Sherlock had a very accurate map of the building laid out in his mind, and was following it accordingly.

Eventually, they came to a large metal door with numerous warning signs on it. As Sherlock was just about to turn the lever-like handle, the door seemingly opened by itself. On the other side stood Molly, somewhat surprised to see the detective on this side of the door. John smiled at her as her gaze passed over him, but it returned to Sherlock soon enough.

Before Molly could utter a word Sherlock was already off with his own sentence, "Molly, how many bodies have you had come into the mortuary since last week?" Sherlock wasn't even looking at Molly, but at the door behind her.

"Uh, well, three I think, but-" Molly started, but Sherlock interrupted her. "Great," he said with a false smile, "could I have a look at one or two?" He was now looking straight at Molly, who was struggling under his gaze. "Um, sorry- I would like to let you- but they're off limits now, if you had come yesterday-" she said, and yet again, Sherlock interrupted.

"Please, Molly?" he said, with the best puppy-dog face he could muster. John knew it was wrong of Sherlock to manipulate Molly like this, but sadly Sherlock had Molly Hooper wrapped around his little finger.

"Well, alright," she said, and turned around to heave open the still-unlocked door. On the other side, the cleanliness of the rest of the hospital turned into a battered grey. Inside there were three bodies on three of the five tables in the room, and Sherlock veered over to the closest one and examined the body before turning back to Molly.

"You couldn't do a really big favour for me and get a riding crop, could you?" he asked, accompanied with yet another false smile. Molly smiled back and nodded, taking the bait, before hurrying out of the room. John looked back at Sherlock as the door closed behind her.

"Do you enjoy manipulating her or do you just have no appreciation for other people?" John asked, looking at Sherlock hard.

"I simply use what I have to my advantage," Sherlock said, not looking up from where he was analysing the male body. "So you don't care about Molly at all?" Sherlock didn't give an answer, but John didn't need one. "Why are we even here?" John continued, because it seemed that Sherlock only wanted to come here to thrash some bodies about.

"It helps me think," Sherlock answered, and John sighed. Sherlock finally stood back from the body and looked to the door, still veiling his left cheek from the doctor's view.

"What is taking her so long?" Sherlock asked the door, and John just looked at him in disbelief.

"You know a riding crop isn't the easiest thing to find in a hospital, right?" John said, musing over how Sherlock always expected the world to revolve around him. John supposed he didn't really know any different with a brother like Mycroft. In fact, Sherlock rarely spoke of his childhood.

"I don't care-" Sherlock started with a raised voice, but then the door swung open and in stepped Molly, with a leather riding crop gripped in her hand. She oddly reminded John of The Woman, but he couldn't think why. When she swung the riding crop toward Sherlock for him to take, John swore he saw Sherlock flinch, just a little. Maybe he was thinking the same thing. He took it with another artificial smile and said thank you, then instantly started whipping the body, quite violently.

John watched Molly observe Sherlock do this, flinching at every strike of leather against skin. Finally, she'd had enough.

"Um, I think I'll just go now. Bye John," she said, looking at the army doctor. John nodded and smiled as a reply. "Bye Sherlock," she said, switching her gaze to the taller man and smiling. Sherlock seemed so engrossed in his method of thinking that he didn't seem to notice Molly. Or perhaps he did, but he couldn't be bothered to be nice to her. The girl's smile faltered a little and she quickly stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind her hurriedly.

Sherlock finished whipping the body with three stronger, elaborate lashes and stepped back, tugging at the collar of his coat to improve his state slightly. With an approving 'Hmph,' he looked up at John, who was looking around the room, seemingly contemplating something.

John couldn't help but notice the dull, almost depressing feel of the room, and wondered if it was just because there were three corpses on metal tables.

"So, this is where people go after they've died?" John asked, and couldn't decide whether he was asking himself or Sherlock, as it seemed quite an obvious question.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, caught up in his own line of thought. John paused before pressing his inquiry further.

"Don't you think it's a little sad?" John asked, "these were real people, and now they're just locked in a cold, grey room."

John didn't think Sherlock really understood what he was talking about, as it involved emotions and feelings, but Sherlock seemed to think about it. Eventually, he came out with; "They're dead, John; they're empty bodies. It doesn't matter what's done with the corpses now." John couldn't help cringe a little at the iciness of Sherlock's reply, and had to look away from him for a moment. He wondered if Sherlock would think differently if it was John lying on one of those tables.

Probably not.

John looked back at Sherlock slowly, who was already making his way to the door to leave. The army doctor watched as Sherlock attempted to heave open the heavy door, and fail.

"That's odd," Sherlock mumbled, and John understood he didn't expect a reply. Nevertheless, he walked over to Sherlock and stood next to him as he tried again.

"Here; let me try," John offered, and Sherlock –for once- obediently moved out of the way. John tensed his muscles as he grabbed the handle on the door and pulled. The door didn't budge. He tried again, before violently shaking the door handle back and forth and releasing it, stumbling backward.

"Molly's locked us in," Sherlock stated from behind him, as if blaming her. John rubbed the palms of his hands as they'd gone red from the friction on the handle.

"I doubt she did it on purpose," John reasoned. Molly had always been very sweet, and John knew she had a soft spot for Sherlock, so it was very unlikely that she did it on purpose. It was an accident.

Sherlock went up to the door and swiftly examined the crevice between the door and the doorjamb. He took out his pocket magnifying glass and looked up and down the dark gap. Sherlock made a sound of frustration and turned to John.

"Two deadbolt locks and a disc-tumbler lock, and they're locked from the outside," Sherlock concluded. John wasn't an expert locksmith, but he was pretty sure that wasn't good.

"I'm guessing we won't be getting out for a while, then?" Sherlock simply grunted in response and stalked away from the door, and headed over to one of the bodiless tables. John watched as he sat on it, pressed his palms together and brushed his lips with his fingers. John knew that pose. He doubted he would be talking for a while.

"Sherlock?" John asked wearily, blinking and rubbing his head. He realised with a start that he'd fallen asleep on one of the metal tables, and quickly checked his watch. He'd been asleep for five hours, at least. He blinked again and lifted his head a little to look around the room.

He was still in the morgue, and Sherlock was sitting at the end of the table with his back to him. As far as John was aware, he hadn't moved since he sat there five-and-a-bit hours ago.

"Sherlock?" he asked again, a bit embarrassed about the fact that his name was the first thing he'd said when he woke up. There was still no reply. He paused, wondering if he was deep in his Mind Palace, when he heard his flatmate speak.

"What time is it, John?" he asked placidly, as if they hadn't been trapped in a morgue with three dead people for more time than John felt comfortable with. Nevertheless, John need to answer.

"It's quarter past six," John informed him, reading his watch again. John knew that Sherlock had his own perfectly-functioning watch strapped to his own wrist, but no doubt he couldn't be bothered. Sherlock cocked his head slightly when John said this.

"In the morning or evening?" Sherlock asked. John felt a pang of worry; had he been asleep for longer? Neither of them had a digital watch, so he couldn't say. He didn't think so, but then again, he had been asleep, and there were no windows showing outside, so it was possible. John decided to be optimistic.

"In the evening," John said. Sherlock groaned a response, and seemingly zoned out again. John slid to the end of the table and perched next to Sherlock. He looked up into his vacant face, and, as presumed, he was staring straight ahead, with his fingers at his chin. John was pretty sure he hadn't moved.

And then John remembered something.

"Sherlock," John said, looking at him seriously. No response; not even an eye twitch or change in breathing pattern. "Sherlock!" The taller man's eyes moved to meet his. Sherlock mumbled a slightly irritated 'Mhmm_,'_ showing he was listening.

John hesitated. "Why did you kiss me?"

That got his full attention. At first John didn't think he was going to answer; Sherlock just stared at him.

"I told you, it was an experiment," he said, and pushed himself from the table to go over to one of the bodies. _Is Sherlock trying to avoid the question? _he thought.

"Yeah, but, an experiment to prove what exactly?" John continued, unsure whether or not this was going to end well. From the angle he was standing, John couldn't see Sherlock's face, but he was pretty sure he flinched for a moment.

"Just to test the natural human correlation between…" Sherlock trailed off into a mumble, and John smirked as he started to realise something.

"Right," John said, going along with it. He moved over to Sherlock, acting as if he too was looking at the body. After a moment, he looked up at Sherlock. John was, as planned, standing to Sherlock's right; the side with Sherlock's injury. John subconsciously bit his lower lip as he saw the simple scarlet colour that covered Sherlock's cheekbone, with a central darker scar. As Sherlock turned to look at John, the army doctor sucked in some air.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked with a hint of fake annoyance in his voice. Frowning down at him, Sherlock turned slightly to face him. John realised he was staring at Sherlock quizzically, trying to figure out the ingenious man before him. John shook his head quickly to snap himself out of his rather awkward thought process of weird ideas.

"Um, nothing Sherlock," he replied hastily. John still thought - rather childishly - it was unfair that Sherlock always got to do these random things and then pass it off under an explanation of 'it was an experiment'.

_Well. Two can play at that game._

Before fully understanding what he was doing, John pushed his lips to Sherlock's and kissed him. He found himself unable to pull away for a moment, and he swore he felt Sherlock _smile_ against his lips. The army doctor pulled away, pretending to be annoyed (at what, John hadn't the faintest), and stalked off.

"Well well, I can't believe my eyes," said a lilting voice coming from the doorway. John and Sherlock both turned to see Moriarty leaning against the doorframe, wearing a very smug smirk, hands in the pockets of his suit jacket.

John cringed as he remembered that he'd left him by some bins, which he was sure Moriarty wasn't too happy about. The consulting criminal had his foot pressed against the base of the door, keeping it sufficiently open.

"Oh, my god," John mumbled, then raised his voice, "Do you follow us everywhere, or is it just coincidence?" He clenched his fists and stared in disbelief at the figure. Moriarty looked like he was pretending to think about his answer to the question.

"Oh, I don't follow both of you, just that one." He said, nodding his head at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.

"If that's all, we'll be on our way," the taller man said, and promptly walked through the door, past Moriarty, who quite happily let him. John hesitated as Moriarty, with no one else in the room, looked at him.

The consulting criminal slowly crept into the room, and John frantically grabbed the closest object, which happened to be a chair, and crammed it inbetween the door and the doorjamb before the door succeeded in closing. He'd been stuck in that room for God-knows-how-long, and he wasn't going to risk being stuck in here for even longer with an unfriendly psychopath.

John was quick to notice that he now was at an advantage to Moriarty. He was closer to the exit. While Moriarty was in the middle of the room, John was now standing right next to the door.

"It's about time you two got together," Jim sneered, and John struggled to force himself to react neutrally. "How long have you liked eachother?" he said, and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"He doesn't like me like that," John argued, not sure how long he could keep his cool. Moriarty laughed. _Laughed._ A horrible sound which seemed to echo around the room.

"But you like him? I'm right, aren't I?" Moriarty slowly paced up and down the room with his hands behind his back, which made John think of a lion hunting its prey. "You really need to be more careful about how you say things, John. _'He doesn't like me like that,' _which suggests you do. Oh, I can't wait to tell him."

John instantly thought, _I think he already knows, _but he didn't say anything. He took in a deep breath, and decided to change the subject. "Well, this has been fun," which it hadn't, "but I ought to catch up with Sherlock." With which he leapt over the chair and kicked it out from being a doorstop with one swift movement. John turned quickly enough to see the heavy door swing shut smoothly, trapping Moriarty behind it. John couldn't help being a little pleased with himself.

John, after getting a bit lost in the network of corridors, found Sherlock sitting in the lobby, in his usual position of fingers steepled at the chin. The doctor was a little relieved that Sherlock had waited for him. "Sherlock!" John said as he ran over to him. Hearing his name had obviously worked well enough to jog him out of whatever he was doing. John never had any idea.

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked at him. "Oh, John. What took you so long?" John should've known that was coming.

"Um, I got held up by Jim." Sherlock's raised eyebrow told him to go on, but John didn't want to go into the details. "It's fine- I'm fine. Honestly." John flashed him a reassuring grin, which Sherlock seemed to take as a sign to change the subject.

"Well then, I suppose we can leave now, then." Sherlock said, and got up, adjusted his scarf, and headed toward the doors, with John at his heels.

"Sherlock! Wait!" a voice cried from behind them. _Female_, John thought as the pair turned again to see who was calling the detective's name.

It turned out to be Molly – no surprise there – who was hurrying towards them flailing a riding crop in the air, which made her look a little weird. "Oh, god…" John heard Sherlock mumble before he pasted his special Molly-smile on his face.

"Oh, hello Molly," he said with such a false enthusiasm John thought Molly had to notice. If she did, she didn't show it. The girl stopped right in front of Sherlock.

"Hi," Molly said with a slight squeak, but she coughed to get her voice back to sounding normal. "You, uh, left your riding crop in the morgue… I thought you might want it back." Molly extended the riding crop towards him, but Sherlock didn't move to take it.

"Molly, the riding crop isn't mine, it's the hospitals'." Sherlock said flatly, as if harshly correcting a seven year old.

"Oh, right. Well, um, sorry for wasting your time, I guess…" Molly mumbled, and her gaze fixed on the floor. While Molly wasn't watching him, Sherlock sighed, frustrated. John imagined it was hard for Sherlock to keep up being what-he-calls 'nice'.

"But thank you, Molly, I appreciate it." And Sherlock kissed Molly's cheek, which quickly turned pink. Molly looked up at Sherlock, eyes wide, and seemed unable to figure out what to say next.

"Right… Yeah, okay… I'll see you around, Sherlock, I suppose." With which she smiled at him, and didn't seem intent on leaving at all. John couldn't help but feel a little left out.

"Goodbye, Molly," Sherlock said, and turned on his heel and headed out the doors, which swung limply after him. John hesitated, checking Molly was okay, then headed out the same doors and followed Sherlock over the boundaries of the premises.

When he caught up to Sherlock, John couldn't help but notice the terrible scowl Sherlock was wearing on his face. John was going to ask what the matter, but Sherlock spoke first.

"I need to go visit my brother."


	5. Epilogue

**AN: So, this bit is technically the epilogue. If you've got this far into the story, I congratulate and thank you!**

John was at Sherlock's heels as he stormed into Mycroft's office. He obviously wasn't very happy about something, but John didn't have any idea what it was.

"What's going on with Molly Hooper?" Sherlock spat.

_Oh._

Mycroft, who was in the middle of making a phone call, glanced up, grimaced, and put the phone back in its cradle without saying a word. John wondered if the person on the other end was important.

"What do you mean?" he said as he leant forward, laced his fingers together and sighed. John could imagine he was expecting a massive theory to escape from Sherlock.

He wasn't disappointed.

"Molly Hooper. Girl working in the mortuary. Don't act as if you don't know who she is. We went to see her earlier today, only to come across a bit of a dilemma." Mycroft raised his eyebrow, seemingly more interested than he was a moment ago. "Anyway, that's not the point. Well, it is a little, I suppose. John thinks she accidentally locked us in the morgue." John blinked. He thought Sherlock believed that too.

Apparently not.

Sherlock continued. "We were locked in there for well over five hours, and yet when we came out, I found Molly still there." John was lost. He didn't understand what Sherlock was getting at. By the looks of things, neither did Mycroft, who frowned and shrugged slightly.

"So?"

"_So, _dear brother, we also happened to bump into Moriarty. Someone must have told him where we were, because we certainly didn't tell him. And the only people who saw us inbetween 221B and St. Bart's morgue were a cabby, and Molly." John finally realised what Sherlock was getting at. He couldn't believe it. "You think Molly is working with Moriarty?" That may have been the most farfetched theory Sherlock had ever told him, and Mycroft was about to protest as well.

Sherlock interrupted him. "And don't say it could have been the cabby; he was overweight and hadn't showered in at least three days. I don't think he's the type to be working with the consulting criminal."

Mycroft looked a little annoyed now. "And why exactly is this my concern?"

"Because, Mycroft, I still believe you're working with him. Telling him things about me. For what; money? No, you've got enough of that. Power? No; again, you have plenty-"

"Sherlock, I'm not working with Jim!"

Sherlock froze, a smirk forming on his lips. "With whom?" he inquired, creeping further towards his brother's desk. John had been working with Sherlock long enough to realise Mycroft's mistake.

"With Moriarty."

"No, say it exactly as you said it a moment ago."

"With Jim…" Mycroft said slowly, not quite getting it yet.

"You know, _dear brother,_" Sherlock said, spitting the last bit so much it even stung John, "I always thought you were the kind of person to be on a first-name basis with only people you knew well_._" Mycroft suddenly realised what he'd said. You could've stamped a 'Guilty' sticker on his forehead.

"Sherlock-" he insisted, but his brother was having none of it.

"So, I ask again, _what_ is going on with Molly Hooper? Are you bribing her to find out information about me? Or is it something else?"Again, Sherlock ceased to amaze John, but he found it hard to believe that Molly would take any sum of money to spy on Sherlock for someone like Moriarty.

Mycroft looked utterly defeated. He scrubbed his face with his hands for a moment and sighed. "I can't hide anything from you, can I?" Mycroft leant back his chair and glared at his little brother. "Although I'm surprised it too you this long to notice." Which perked the interest of both Sherlock and John. Mycroft took in a deep breath and continued, but on a different subject.

"Before I explain, I should tell you I was just- you're right. It wasn't for money or power. I wanted to find out how your brain worked, Sherlock, to use that knowledge for even more than what you do now. I thought that if I found out I could create-"

"You wanted to make other people like him?" John interrupted, which got him a glare from Mycroft.

"Yes… And then Moriarty said he could help me. He said he wanted the same goal; said he could help, but he needed to know more about you…" John couldn't believe it. The British Government had been dumb enough to be manipulated by Moriarty _that easily._

"So you told him everything you know about me. Didn't you realise he was _using _you?" Sherlock exclaimed, arms folded in front of his chest.

"I thought- look, he said he had… connections that could help me with my goal, and he helped me, in return for information…"

Sherlock sighed and mumbled something like _Idiot_ under his breath, before saying, "Fine. But where does Molly come into this?"

"…You're right. Molly isn't your average Post Mortem worker. We needed information about what you were doing in the hospital's labs without being obvious. Molly…She's a professional I hired…" Mycroft bit his lip as Sherlock frowned at him in disbelief. John had to admit he wasn't buying it either. "She's one of the best. Sherlock, she's a spy. Always has been; right from the start. Remember Jim from IT? That was just a lie, covered by a truth covered by another lie to mislead you onto something else. I'm surprised Sherlock… You disappointed me."

John had had enough. He could believe – just – that Mycroft was working with Moriarty, because he was here himself admitting it, but bringing Molly into it was too much. "Oh my god, you're even starting to _sound_ like that psychopath! Molly didn't realise who _Jim from IT_ was! She wasn't _working_ _with_ him!"

"No, Dr. Watson, she made you _believe_ that! I told you; she's one of the best…" Mycroft seemed gravely truthful and that's what scared him the most. What he had said so far actually made sense if you looked beyond the incredulous main point of Molly being a spy.

"Prove it." Sherlock hadn't spoken for a while, so when he spoke it made John jump a little. After glaring at Sherlock for a moment, Mycroft dug his phone out of his pocket and dialled a number.

"Hello, Molly? Yes, it's me. Sherlock's found out… Yes… Yes." It annoyed John a little that he couldn't hear the other half of the conversation, but he imagined what Molly – if it was Molly – was saying on the other end. Mycroft took the phone away from his ear and held it out for Sherlock to take. "Ask her yourself."

Sherlock gingerly swiped the phone from him and held it to his own ear. "Molly…?" He asked, sounding rather unsure, which was weird coming from Sherlock. As John thought about it more, maybe Sherlock did have a hunch about Molly, because he never acted completely like himself around her.

John could just make out the tinny voice from behind Sherlock if he strained his hearing. It was hard to tell, but it did sound like a woman.

Suddenly Sherlock flung the phone to the floor and stormed out, a clear look of anger on his face. Sherlock didn't like being tricked, especially like this, John guessed. The phone looked a little helpless on the floor, and John could hear the voice quite clearly. Molly was shouting his name down the phone.

"Sherlock!"


End file.
